Finnbar says: I used to know a guy who tattooed LOVE across his left knuckles, but didn't tattoo HATE on the other knuckles because he was right-handed and realised he couldn't finish. Ever run out of skills or inspiration halfway through a job?

Earlier this year, after getting increasingly miffed with numerous attempts by Greenpeace to try and drag me back into the sea so I could re-join my fellow whale comrades, (which is no mean feat considering I live in Coventry) I eventually stumbled to the begrudged conclusion that I might be just a teensy bit overweight.

(On reflection I should have spotted the warning signs, like losing whole items of furniture in-between my flapping wadges of man-cleavage…and there was that time when someone mistook me for Jupiter…but hey ho.)

‘Ah ha’! – I hear you yelp, as you try to find something remotely ‘on-topic’ in what I am rambling about: ‘I bet the thing that you started was a diet, and you couldn’t finish it….so…you’re still a whopping great big lardy-tarded blob of wastoid wobble-bottom-ness, right?’….wrong!, gentle reader – I knuckled down, managed to shoe-horn my chubby digits away from the patented ‘Mr Creosote’ bucket that I used for my half hourly chow-a-thons, and promptly lost 5 stone and 6 inches off my waist…

So nope, that’s not what this is about – and this is only at best a half 'on-topic' post, mainly due to the fact that although it is about a time when I started something...by Lucifer’s spikey ball-sack, I sure as shit couldn’t stop it.

To aid me in the early days of my belligerent battle against bulbous blubber & bollock-bending bulges I exercised a bit, but most importantly I slashed my calorie intake down to next to bugger-all, and this led to my body fervently soaking up every last scrap of what I was slowly drip feeding into it.

Not even a smidge, a niffy nugget or a whiffy winnet. All efforts and attempts to deploy a good old 'didgeridoo' were futile, and much like my sex life, merely resulted in much grunting, sweating, heaving and straining with eventual zero end product...and all round dissatisfaction for all involved.

This was a new experience for me – I’m more used to dumping dungtastic destructive depth charges of gargantuan proportions, with the awesome regularity of an atomic clock in Greenwich. ‘For fuck’s sake’, I used to remember thinking, ‘I am Pooflake! – hear my rear roar!’ My bowels are my nemesis, so a lack of ability in this department was unthinkable, like being robbed of a part of my very identity. I had unwittingly become a shadow of the backside-blasting bastard B3tard I used to be….but now…what good was Pooflake without the ‘poo’?…If there wasn’t already someone on B3ta called flake I would’ve changed my username. I ended up staying off B3ta, as my stories and posts dried up like my pathetic excuse for a chutney cupboard – when I wasn’t dropping brown death from above it seemed like I wasn’t doing anything…

Things were bad.

The days rattled on and the dust and cobwebs started to develop in my redundant and draughty dark bung-hole. I considered reaching up my own cack-cavity with a dessert spoon and seeing what I could dig out, but then I thought of another solution...

I’m afraid to say that in my sorrowful desperation, I decided to dabble towards a chemical answer...And lo, one evening, I took some laxatives. I didn’t go mad…Just two, tiny, insignificant little yellow tablets that I got from Tesco.

That was enough. Trust me. That was well enough.

The next day started fine, filled with my usual hope for the future before the weight of the world crushes my spirit – (usually by about 9am) – I was toffed up to the nines in my new office clobber of light grey suit trousers with crisp white shirt, and I strolled into the office, brimming with the confidence you get whilst losing weight (as everyone tells you 'how much better' you now look, before you realise that it’s actually a back-handed compliment because what they’re actually saying is that you used to be a proper fugly-bloater-boy, but now you’re slightly less of a fat cunt – so well done you!)

Anyhoo, my day progressed without incident, no worries...nothing to report……until….UNTIL….

HOLY FUCKING PISS DRIPPING OFF A MONKEY’S FOREHEAD!!!!! WHAT THE SWORD-SWALLOWING FUCK IS GOING ON IN MY CRAP FACTORY?!??

It was like someone had lit the fuse on the opening titles of 'Mission: impossible'...However, the mission I had no choice but to accept was to get squatting on a chod bin before my anus self-destructed in the next five seconds.

I dropped my work like it was on fire, and leapt to my feet before rocketing towards the nearest bog at a pace that would make Usain Bolt weep into his spray-on lycra tights.

After just a few spirited bounds I already had the otter’s nose sticking out, and it felt as if the first two inches of the impending doom were already cold. The crushing desperation to go and urgently ‘hang a rat’ was overwhelming – this suddenly felt like a matter of life and death….

I single-mindedly pushed past the old lady from the service desk as my memories of poo-calamities past started to flood back. Thankfully, before long I was hoofing open the door to trap 1 – the scene of so many fecal crimes before - with my kex already dropped round my ankles …

“OOH for fuck’s sake here comes some mo….AAARRGGHHH URGGHH!!!….(the next few minutes’ experience is censored on humanitarian grounds)

I was stuck there…stranded, alone and helpless – a slave to the relentless explosions of this dirty bomb as it ruptured my spleen with its sheer rage and velocity. It was all I could do to perch there, semi-silently shuddering as I contemplated what the spluttering ‘splashback’ alone was doing to my pitiful battered butt-cheeks and they dangled precariously into the pan and relentlessly continued to catch full-on what was spewing forth in such hideous handfuls of hateful horror

But.it just.did.not.stop.

As I pleaded for my life it was as if some grim arse-ghoul had reached up my trembling turd tunnel with his ghostly claw, grabbed my frantically spasming intestines and was wringing them out like a grannies’ dishcloth, leaving my mind wandering and my body involuntarily shaking in what felt like a crippling case of what could only be described as ‘Poo Parkinsons’

During the thunderous clackervalve-projected holocaust I can just remember hearing somebody opening the outside door of the toilet block, before muttering ‘Jesus!’ under their breath and wisely deciding that they were no longer that desperate to use the facilities any more.

As the devastation ploughed on relentlessly by the trough-full, I sank to my lowest ebb. My poor tattered brownstar felt like the eye of Sauron from the Lord of the Rings, and I began to consider reaching for the bog-roll to write out my last will and testament - before realising how difficult a task that would be considering I had my legs dangling in the air and feet pushed up high against the lavvy door for extra leverage - in the fashion of someone in stirrups, painfully giving birth to a squishy cocophany that was not so much a brown trout, but more a school of angry brown ravenous acid-spitting piranha fish, trying to chew their way through the fast-buckling bog porcelain whilst simultaneously infecting the atmosphere like a mutated airborne virus.

But then…almost as quickly as it had begun…it subsided. I was pale and exhausted, and it was a close thing, but I had survived!

I checked my watch and discovered that if I got a wriggle on I would still be on time for the death-defyingly dull meeting I was due at.

Hurridly wiping my sandblasted shite socket was one of the most disturbing experiences of my life, but It was soon over, and as I made my mental note to buy a lifetime supply of mindbleach, before I knew it I was outside the meeting room with a couple of minutes to spare.

Thinking that the smart thing to do would be to get the next hours’ worth of vuvuzel-arse related misery out of the way before subjecting my colleagues to the decadent displeasure of my mud-oven-mishaps in a small meeting room, I strained a bit and managed to squeak out a crafty ‘parp’ or nine – As my trousers trumpeted triumphantly, the hallway was treated to a mixture of sounds, forces and general textures but most importantly I was soon assured that I must now be officially empty.

So I strode in confidently and sit down and as the meeting started and then proceeded to trundle on with the gritty pace and interest level of a bag of mouldy potatoes. Of course, I dazzled my employers and peers with my vice-like grip on all issues, and encyclopedic knowledge of all technical matters…well….by that I mean I managed to stay awake, and every now and then I would nod, mutter indifferently and do general meeting wotnot. Unfortunately, what was actually keeping me awake was being distinctly aware of the unwelcome return of the recent and all-too-familiar gut-gurgling, which was accompanied by quite frankly unacceptable, wet-yet-thankfully—silent-ish guffs that I luckily got away with as I squirmed about rather uncomfortably…it was a quite a hot day too, but I was still quietly confident that the rancid stench emanating from my frequently dropped guts were not being detected, considering nobody was falling off their seats or calling for an ambulance…or a priest.

The perfect crime!

Eventually, the meeting was over and I made good my escape, making the most of the time remaining in the day to go and visit some workmates and talk football-related bollocks – the last hour or so flew by….Time to go home…

Yet as I returned to my car I caught sight of something that I could not quite initially fathom. There, in the car park, right by my car door, was the very boardroom seat that I had used an hour or so earlier.

After calmly declaring ‘Wtf?’ to myself, I moved in closer for further inspection and was quite taken aback as I slowly clapped eyes on what stood before me….

All over the seat cover was was about a foot-long, fetid, dark brown streak of purest poo-pipe produce, smeared deeply into the fabric making the whole item resemble some sort of sick sacred shrine to shite-related inhumanity.

Attached to my car windscreen was a note that read:

“Dear Pooflake.

You really are a dirty, dirty twat. Fuck knows what you ate. The chair is now your problem, not ours - Enjoy”

Trying to fathom what was going on, I nervously reached for my phone and called my manager, asking if she knew what was going on. I could distinctly hear the tremble in her shell-shocked voice as she explained the situation:

Between bursts of restrained rage and fits of stifled giggles, my boss then revealed to me that my stomach gurgling and ‘silent’ guffs were not quite as silent as I thought I had endeavoured to conjure them. Instead, everyone in the meeting was merely being polite whilst slowly chewing back thoughts of murder / suicide brought about by the nose-bursting aroma that I was quacking out at a relative frenzy.

As my bedraggled balloon-knot burped and bubbled I was aware of the possibility of some slight seepage, but I thought it was merely to the level of an uncomfortable, soggy, but private misdemeanor that would only later possibly result in a tactical wipe. However, I was unknowingly splurging finest chemical-induced terror all over the unwitting seat fabric below.

After the meeting, blissfully unaware of this abomination I had created and was about to abandon, I stood up and strode out confidently, heading off on my rounds, leaving the sight that befell the poor lady sat next to me to hit her with such violent vigour that it apparently nearly had her doubled over and gagging.

Incredibly, (but hardly surprisingly being 'managers'), they decided to have a meeting at this newly-crowned ‘ground zero’ to decide what action to take. Initially, they were going to give me an almighty bollocking and hit me with the cleaning bill for the chair, but then after further discussion, they all decided as a collective that even if the poor seat was scrubbed raw with industrial-strength atomic-powered Cillit-Bang, then there would still be no way that anybody would ever willingly let themselves ever again come into contact with the disgraced turd-rag throne from hell, (after all, you can’t gouge out your mind’s eye). So it was duly decided that the best option short of demolishing the building was to just ‘get rid’ of the grossly offending item. (probably for the best…)

I must admit that despite the predicament I was in, I smirked a bit when I discovered that henceforth lots were drawn and one unfortunate colleague (who is a bit of a git anyway) was given the dubious honour that nobody really deserves; of dragging the aforementioned befouled seat out into the car park and abandoning it by my car with the note – (I understand that he may now need counselling)

I hung up and tried computing this information with my usual lightning reflexes, before slowly realising that if I had done this repugnant vandalisation to the chair, then it could only have done so after first seeping through the fabric on my dunghampers and then my sorry trollies. As instinctive as it was purely stupid, I moved my hand round the back as I gazed at what was written at the very bottom of the note:

“PS – check your arse – and burn those trousers you are wearing*.”

With that, I gradually came to the painful realisation that for the last hour of the day, about 100 people had witnessed me walking around like a cock-sure bell-end, whilst proudly sporting a stonking great skidmark the size of the QE2 trying to navigate a course half way up my back.

So I was stood there, even more humiliated than usual, with a dirty, stinging, stained-beyond-recognition rusty ringpiece, and now runny shite smeared over my right hand...whilst next to me lay a tainted, honking office chair that I had no idea what to do with.

I think I should only wear brown clothes from now on – it’s either that...or get a nappy :(

Epilogue: The chair is now positioned pride of place at Coventry City Dump (rather fitting really) where you can visit it if you like – I did briefly consider selling it on Ebay, but for the love of jellied fuck, even I have to draw the line somewhere…

HAHAHAHAHA!
A wonderful piece of prose. And well done on the weight loss!
(moogthedog, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 13:33,
closed)

I'll be fair here
I did chuckle at "Poo Parkinsons"
(the mighty badgerAphrodite, on a bar stool, by your side, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 13:34,
closed)

I love a woman who talks dirty.
The frailty that sets upon one with an acid-scorched ringpiece is truly alarming. When they show a PoV shot of a person in a movie who's just survived an explosion, all tinnitus and overexposed film, it reminds me so much of having a vitriolated sphincter.
(Ladyfingersis in your wardrobe,, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 13:47,
closed)

Dear god!
much barely restrained sniggering and chortling in the office!

Bravo!
Sitting here with tears in my eyes chortling at:A/ probably the best Pooflake post ever andB/ the happy fact that I work from home and no-one would have seen me apoplectic and blue-faced fighting for air through the laughter.

fucking epic
this has definitely taken some of the sting out of my hangover :)
(Smash Monkeyis going off the rails on a crazy train, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 15:56,
closed)

Ah, fuck it
My fiance now thinks I'm a fucking looney because I was laughing too much to tell him what I was laughing at.I too know the dieter's stomach troubles. I have lost three stone myself in the last six months, and although I never needed laxatives - quite the opposite in fact as since cutting the calories and changing what I eat it comes out of me like the Eurostar ! - I am aware of the deathly hell that can result in one's insides suddenly being subjected to a radical change in diet. (shudders in sympathy and memory !)Click !
(womanwhocanonlylivewithdogs, Fri 25 Jun 2010, 15:59,
closed)